“You’re so dumb it’s insane I don’t even know what I would do without you I don’t have a clue but I do too and I—” Da Boss has written a song. A new song. It just goes on and on like that. I’m scared. I don’t have a clue, either. I keep eating these baked bagels and green biscuits that he gives me—because I trust him—and now, a month in, I’m feeling strange. I’m starting to feel strange. Food doesn’t taste the same as it used to, nor as good; I find my husband Rooster less annoying, and his bastard cousin Bennington Q., ever more fetching; my spur claws are swollen and my feathers are falling out even though I’ve been exercising; following a health food diet, my immune system has collapsed and I’m back to eating squirrels half crushed on the side of the road. I know I don’t have much longer. Here. Here I mean here in this editing room. I’m not going anywhere. Moron.
I can feel the heart beating as two because the vaccine gave me heart arrhythmia (kidding). No but I really am MESSED UP from that whole situation. That’s why I took on the job of editing Da Boss’ “coronavirus movie.” The whole thing is a joke: SATUR-19 a play on COVID-19 with the same number of letters; a reference to the director’s Saturn Return coinciding with the pandemic; and a pun on the word “saturnine” (moody, gloomy).
Damn I just realized all that shit. Did Da Boss realize it late in the game as well? The answer to that question is a resounding NO: “The title SATUR-19 and all of its aspects and why it works came to me instantly, and first, because that’s the way everything presents itself to me.” So, in other words, your creative process can be described as everything everywhere all at once? “Stop talking to me, Monica.”
Wow. That did it! Spur claw time.
While Da Boss wrapped his bandages, I let him film some more interstitial shots of the watercolor panels his mother made for the film. They’re really nice. I think I’ll hang one up on my wall when I get home, next year. Da Boss has said nothing about Christmas—I don’t think he cares. Does he care? “No.” Well I’m not getting you a gift either, then. There’s only so much work you can do before you need something else to… uh… do? I’m sure there’s a better way of saying this. “Monica, why are you talking out loud as you write? It’s really, so annoying. I’d rather you lower your voice or move into another room so you can type—please don’t do that, please don’t hurt me again OW! okay look you can work down here but please let me at least start making notes on the last cut that you made.
What’s he going to do without me? He’s in a ball underneath my desk. Seriously. Maybe Bennington will help him. Do you find Da Boss interesting? Write in. It’d be a nice excuse to get Bennington out of the house and give me and Rooster a year off. Let him be the lead for once. Da Boss doesn’t know he’s being negotiated for the sequel right now—I’m his co-star and his agent. That glass ceiling is fucking gone, I’m making so much money on Bennington’s year and they’re getting nooooooooothing. I’m still selling Bennington’s life rights. Hit me up on X, the everything app. We’ll make a deal, I promise. Bennington’s a good rooster, he just needs too be sent in a carrier crate with peanuts—real peanuts, not packing peanuts, because he gets hungry and needs food. We roosters and hens look out for each other. You don’t. Too bad you don’t know why. (And I’m not telling you either.)
Mood.
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits